Lovesick
by STOPiamreading
Summary: Dr. Iplier has been getting strange symptoms lately, especially involving a certain blindfolded patient of his. Meanwhile, the Host finally mustered the strength to finally ask the doctor out. Something unexpected occurs, things lead to another, a misunderstanding is resolved, and Dr. Iplier finally figures out what's wrong with the two of them. (art by adorkwithhats)


Dr. Iplier changed out of his mildly bloody medical scrub shirt and formerly-white lab coat, discarding them onto the floor. His mind has been wandering lately. One of his regular patients seemed to occupy himself in his brain like a cancerous tumor or _Taenia solium_ larvae might. He was frequently distracted and excitable, getting flustered uncharacteristically easily. That and the overall warmth he felt coursing through his body and the achey tightness in his chest concerned him to no end.

What's worse was that the doctor couldn't diagnose exactly what sickness he had. Dr. Iplier knew they could be signs of a heart attack or about a hundred other maladies that could possibly kill him, but he didn't dare imagine the possibility that _he_ was the one who was dying, as painfully ironic that would be.

He wanted to get rid of it, and soon. It was impeding on his work and the credibility of his profession, to the dismay of his business partner, fellow doctor, and best friend, Schneep. Dr. Iplier accidentally dropped a scalpel into Peter during his surgery and caused a bloody mess (literally) because of it. Poor Peter didn't make it. But then again, that's what you got when you ran a medical practice with Henrik von Schneeplestein (the "Doctor" part was debatable): Peter never stood a chance.

But as time progressed, Dr. Iplier found that whatever he had made him feel euphoric. Maybe the disease or parasite released dopamine? He suspected that it had something to do with that patient of his. Maybe they were also the Patient Zero for his ailment? Or were they somehow causing these symptoms through mind control?

The doctor was familiar with the paranormal through his experiences with the infamous Darkiplier, so it wouldn't be _too_ farfetched. He had his suspicions about his patient, but knew that it wasn't really professional of him to comment. Either way, they were forced to interact on a daily basis and Dr. Iplier didn't feel like losing his most loyal customer, so he said nothing of it and ignored the rapid beating of his heart (tachycardia?).

Soon the doctor found himself thinking about his "favorite" patient. Again. Of course. His thoughts always drifted to that quiet, contemplative man. The disease- Illness? Parasite? Whatever it was, the symptoms were getting worse.

Dr. Iplier sighed, picking up his bloody scrubs from the floor. He didn't want to further lower the reputation of his business by leaving his bedroom and private clinic messy.

* * *

The Host opened the door to Dr. Iplier's bedroom and makeshift clinic with a faint creek. He considered knocking first, but what he needed to ask the doctor was urgent. Well, maybe not urgent per se, but he had been thinking about it for a while now and had finally come to the conclusion that today was the day he would ask their resident doctor out.

What the Host didn't expect was to find was said doctor shirtless. The Host can't see, not in the physical sense anyway, but he has the ability to narrate his surroundings to get a vague sense of what's going on. So when his internal monologue started describing in excruciating detail exactly how lean Dr. Iplier's exposed upper body looked like and the faintest hint of his V-line peaking over the elastic of his thin blue scrub pants, the Host became overwhelmed. Of course, the Host doesn't say this aloud: for once, his narrations remained in his head in a loud, frantic monotone. The Host couldn't hear himself think, let alone focus from the mental barrage of stimuli. _Shit._

* * *

Dr. Iplier tosses the bloody clothes into the hamper. He turns around to find the Host, propping himself up by the doorway looking like he was on the verge of collapse.

"Oh! Uh, you're here awfully early… Are you alright?"

"The Host, um, I- _fuck._"

The doctor's eyes widen in concern. Blood streaked down the Host's bandages like tears. It was rare to see him shocked into using first person and it was usually was damaging to his physical health. And this was the first time Dr. Iplier ever heard the Host stutter.

The Host makes an attempt to step into the room and falters. Dr. Iplier is quickly by the Host's side, holding the trenchcoated man up by the waist to guide him to the bed (which served as both a hospital cot and the doctor's actual bed). The Host sits on the edge while the doctor hangs his stethoscope around his neck, putting on his lab coat and head mirror out of habit: all without noticing that he still wasn't wearing a shirt.

The Host can't help but compare the mental image to the intro of a low-budget porno. He covers his head in his hands and groans in exasperation. Why did Dr. Iplier have to be at the pinnacle of health?

The doctor feels the Host's forehead with gentle tenderness, his cool hand resting against warm skin. He tilts the Host's head up from under his chin, examining how much blood his patient lost. The Host can feel Dr. Iplier's intense stare on him as he attempts to figure out what's wrong. He hopes that the doctor won't notice his face heating up.

The physical contact felt intimate, even though it was practically ritual at this point with the amount of times the Host visits. The Host mentally compares it to heavy petting leading up to eventual smut. He internally screams.

The Host's narrations drift to Dr. Iplier's inner monologue as the doctor checks his vitals. It's something that the Host tries to avoid as it's an invasion of privacy, but it wasn't something he was able to control in his current state. Anything was better than whatever his brain was conjuring right now.

* * *

Usually he's calm under pressure, but the doctor can't explain is why he feels irrational, seething anger for whatever caused the Host's predicament. Dark maybe? Or Wilford? Probably someone with a great deal of power for the Host to essentially overload.

The doctor rarely gets angry: Annoyed? All the time. Cranky? Every morning before the caffeine hits. But Dr. Iplier felt, for the first time, homicidal. How _dare_ they? The Host's health is delicate to say the least: the other egos know that. Yet Dr. Iplier is well aware that the blindfolded man can take care of himself. Then why does he feel so protective of him?

He knew, in great detail, at least 50 different ways to kill a person _and_ had the means to do it. Injecting air into the bloodstream and facilitating an air embolism, constricting the windpipe and suffocating them while they sleep, utilizing any number of lethal drugs he had on hand: the list went on. If anyone ever hurt the Host again, he'd have to…

He takes a deep breath. The Host needs a doctor now, not an emotional wreck. The doctor checks off his mental checklist and goes through the familiar motions of proper medical procedure for his patient. It was his job to help people, and he'd be damned if he did just the opposite: at least on purpose (accidents happen).

* * *

For some reason, imagining Dr. Iplier attempting to murder the infamous Dark and Wilford duo calms the Host down. The Host had an especially violent streak during his Author days, so he understood the feeling well. But the fact that the doctor would feel so passionately about _him_ was… endearing. Maybe this could still work…

The doctor grabs his glasses from his desk and pushes them up the bridge of his nose. They were rectangular ones reminiscent of Mark's old trademark, which the Host imagined made Dr. Iplier look more distinguished and erudite. He reads off his clipboard with concern.

"Elevated heart rate, irregular breathing, flushed but no fever, dilated pupils… Host, do you know what -or who- caused this?" The Host notices how Dr. Iplier clenches his jaw at "who". How cute.

_You._ "That doesn't matter, Doctor. I can assure you, I'm fine. I've been experiencing these 'symptoms' for a while now. I know they're not fatal." He casually fails to mention the overload he just had.

"And you didn't bother to tell me? We see each other every day!" Dr. Iplier gasps with a look of genuine horror on his face. "Have you… have you been seeing _other_ doctors?!"

The Host stifles a laugh. "Of course not. Dr. Schneeplestein may be 'zhe good doctah', but you are the best one."

"Oh, I _know_," Dr. Iplier asserts, the flirtatious remark flying over his large ego. "Trust me, you wouldn't believe how many lawsuits we get every week. It's a wonder how our business stays afloat."

Something that the Host said triggers something in the doctor's mind. He checks his clipboard again. The Host had been experiencing this for a while now, minus the almost collapsing part. And so had he. It can't be... can it? The symptoms were the same as his own.

"I'm sorry, but I think we're both dying."

"...We?"

Dr. Iplier sets down his clipboard and sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He never liked being the bearer of bad news, but the burden seemed to be part of his job.

"I'm afraid we both have the same illness- same symptoms and everything. Yours is probably later-staged, which would explain the fainting spell. We should warn Dark and the others to quarantine the area or something."

The Host starts laughing, loud and unabashedly. Dr. Iplier looks on in confusion and finds himself unable to speak. This was the first time he saw the Host laugh this much. Creepy sadistic grins? Sure. A wry smile after making a snide remark? Rare, but certainly rewarding. This crazed fit of giggling however? Unheard of until now. The doctor liked seeing the Host happy, even if it _was_ due to the thought of their own deaths. Maybe it was a coping mechanism. He wonders how much time he had left to hear it again.

The Host slowly calms down, wiping the blood dripping down his face as if he was wiping away tears of laughter. It doesn't have the same effect: Dr. Iplier grimaces at the red smear on the back of his patient's hand.

"I assure you, those measures will not be necessary. Tell me Doctor, when do these 'symptoms', as you call them, tend to occur?"

"All the time since a few weeks ago, but it gets worse when you're around: no offense. Is it that Hanahaki disease Yandereiplier was telling me about?"

The Host resists the urge to facepalm. For someone who supposedly went to medical school, Dr. Iplier was surprisingly dumb. He completely went against the stereotype of glasses-wearers being the most intelligent.

"No. What you- _we_ have is not an illness nor disease, at least not in the traditional sense."

"You know what it is then? Is there a cure?" Dr. Iplier replies in all seriousness.

The Host sighs. He still didn't get it. "Doctor, are you familiar with the concept of love?"

"Obviously", Dr. Iplier retorts, his ego kicking in again. The Host sincerely doubts it. "There are tons of books on the subject and Wil talks about it all the time. It's a combination of dopamine, serotonin, and adrenaline."

"In scientific terms, yes. And the physical indications?"

Dr. Iplier thinks for a moment, going down the list. It clicks.

"Oh my god, I love you."

A pause. The doctor starts to realize what he blurted out loud. He covers his face in his hands, not daring to make eye contact (or whatever was closest to that) with the Host/newfound target of affection. He opens his mouth in an attempt to amend his spur of the moment confession until he hears the Host's muttered response:

"...The feeling is mutual".

The two of them are both blushing messes and the silence is impenetrable. Dr. Iplier doesn't know how to respond. What was he supposed to say? How does one typically proceed from here? How does this work?

He breaks the silence with a hastily stammered excuse to grab a damp hand towel and a fresh bandage for the Host's bleeding eye sockets. The doctor gently wipes the blood off the Host's face, dyeing the towel pink.

The Host knew better than to argue about being able to do it himself. "It's my job!" the doctor said every time the Host commented on it, even though he knew it wasn't necessary. Whether it be the simple action of bandaging his face or wiping blood off it, Dr. Iplier was always gentle. The doctor was one of the only ones who knew what happened to the Host: what happened to his eyes, what he had done, who he'd hurt. And still, _still_ Dr. Iplier treated him with curtesy and kindness. But why? It was one of the things about the doctor that the Host found intriguing- captivating even. And to think that Dr. Iplier liked him back...

"You are…" the Host pauses, searching for the right word to say next. Although he's a writer and self proclaimed linguist, he can't find another word that conveys the same emotion and feeling. "Beautiful. The Host wishes that he could see you".

"Host, you don't have to. I'm really not," the doctor asserts with a half-hearted chuckle. He tries to focus on helping his patient instead of the burning sensation on his cheeks. At least the Host was stable enough to phase out of talking in first person.

The Host's head tilts to the side, frowning slightly. "You are the kind of doctor and person that others like the Host need, but not necessarily the one they deserve. The Host understands if this is something you aren't comfortable pursuing yet, or ever."

Dr. Iplier scoffs, setting the now bloodstained towel down. "Hold on, you deserve all the care and support in the world, medical or otherwise. Sure you've done horrible things in the past, but that doesn't make you any less deserving of happiness now."

The doctor gingerly unties the Host's bandage to expose closed eyelids caked with dried blood. "Because you're 'beautiful' too. And _this_-," Dr. Iplier pauses, taking the Host's hand in both his own. "This is something that I want too. If you'll have me".

"Of course," the Host says with a rare smile. It's sweet and small, but the doctor's heart palpitates anyways. "The Host would even like to ask if you were free for coffee or a beverage of your choice later, if you are interested."

"Are you… asking me out?" The Host was always taken aback at how dumb his doctor sometimes was.

"The Host says yes".

"Neat!" Dr. Iplier exclaims a little too enthusiastically, "Um, I'll be there."

He carefully ties the new bandage over the Host's face. The doctor knew the pristine cloth would only stay white for so long until it got stained red again and his patient would have to return. The Host slides off the bed to face Dr. Iplier.

"The Host would like to thank the doctor for his help and for accepting his proposal. The Host also implores Dr. Iplier to put a shirt on." The Host's gaze (if one could call it that) drifts to the floor to try and avoid having his thoughts veer into dangerous territory again.

That explains why the doctor felt so cold. He tries to ignore the sharp spikes of embarrassment stabbing his insides. You know it's bad when a legally blind man points out your dress code infringement (or lack thereof of said "dress").

"Well that's unprofessional of me. I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable."

"The Host says it's more than fine, just distracting. The Host will leave to let the doctor finish changing."

"Oh."

Dr. Iplier is still unused to all the compliments and to seeing this slightly flirty Host. Not that he was complaining though. He had so many questions and cursed his lack of experience. The Host was halfway out the door when the doctor calls out after him.

"Hey Host, how do you know all this stuff?"

Dr. Iplier knew with 100% certainty that the Host never brought any partners back to the manor (his medical questionnaires tend to be extensive, if not a little insensitive), and he was sure that the Author's experiences didn't really count as the Host's own.

The Host grins mischievously. "You don't know half of the things I write. Maybe I'll show you one day, if you're up to it."

A spot of crimson spreads through the Host's bandages as he shifts into first person. On that note, the Host leaves and the doctor is left with more confusion and a piqued interest.

The doctor grabs a clean shirt, bunching it up and covers his face, groaning. What does the Host write? Where the hell did he get "neat" from? What happened to the less awkward (but not nearly as fulfilling) doctor-patient relationship they used to have?

The doctor finally puts the shirt on and his lab coat over it, falling facedown onto his bed. The headmirror presses uncomfortably against his skull. He didn't know when "later" was for his little date, nor where. Where they going to meet there or were they going together? And holy fuck, what was he going to _wear_?

* * *

Host smiles to himself, walking down the familiar path to his room. For the first time in a long time, he felt content: he finally asked the flustered doctor out, though he didn't expect getting "distracted" or the doctor actually accepting.

He turns a corner to sense some of the other egos crowding the hallway with conniving looks directed towards him. How did they find out so fast? The Host mentally prepares himself for annoyance.

"I hear that _someone_ has been trying to make a move on our good doctor here," Dark announces with a smirk. "I congratulate you Host, I hope the two of find happiness."

Dark sighs wistfully. The others can't tell if he is joking or not when he mutters "they grow up so fast" like a proud parent.

"So~?" Wilford teases in a singsong voice, slinging his arm around the blindfolded man's shoulder and whispers conspiratorially: "didya fuck?"

The others respond with similar curiosity, loudly talking over one another. The Host can sense an imminent migraine at the multiple dialogues and camera panning he has to keep track of. But he appreciates their support nonetheless.

"Can I just establish the fact that I am still the gayest one here? Just saying," Bim affirms as an afterthought.

"The Host asks all of the egos to stop blocking the hallway."


End file.
